


WITH LOVE

by blossomshed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 17:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blossomshed/pseuds/blossomshed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a sad day in winter, Dean meets a guy in the park who just might be able to turn his frown upside down, if he could only remember something more than his name.</p><p>Meanwhile, in Heaven, Castiel has to defend the decision to abandon his post purely to make a guy on a park bench smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful art for this minibang is by symphonicblue, [here](http://symphonicblue.livejournal.com/1266.html)
> 
>  
> 
> A small warning for mild dub-con mentioned near the start - both participants are willing, but not in a position to give good consent.

"I believe we all know why we're here today," says Naomi, scanning the gathered courtroom for confirmation. The room is sombre, nowhere more so than the seat of the accused, but there's the delicate hum of gossip on a lower wavelength. Zachariah, of the prosecution, manages to look the smug end of sober, if such an look could exist.

 

"Castiel, you stand accused of several serious breaches of protocol. The punishment for these transgressions is severe, but given your... _varied_ service history, it was felt you should be given a chance to explain yourself." She smiles, but it's a cold thing. "I am _sure_ you will give a full and detailed report of your actions."

 

He knows it shouldn't, but the weight of the varied eyes on him is starting to make him nervous. They're just curious, he knows; it's not the first time anyone has done what he has, but it's been a long time, and angels do love to gossip. In all honesty, once he was aware of himself again, Castiel was more than a little surprised at how seriously everyone was behaving about it - going as far as to take vessel facsimiles, the room, and he was pretty sure he'd even seen Zachariah wearing one of those courtroom wigs earlier - and while it was... _frowned_ upon, all anyone else had ever really gotten was a slap on the wrist.

 

Aware that Naomi was now looking at him expectantly, he cleared his throat. "Where do you want me to start?"

 

"I think the beginning would be best, don't you?"


	2. Chapter 1

"So that's it," he tells the sky, holding his eighth - or was it ninth? - beer up in a solitary toast to the slow, silent snow. The might be something beautiful about the way the world goes quiet with a layer of white powder on it; it was the reason he'd set up in the park this evening, after all, but after a few hours the quiet got oppressive and he'd felt the need to fill it. "Holiday's weeks away, and I got close to nothing. I swear it gets sadder every year, and whose fault is that?"

 

 _Mine_ , is what Dean hesitates to say, and wow, there he goes again! He can't even own up to his feelings when it's just between him and the streetlamp-tinted clouds, no wonder he can't solve any of his damned 'problems'.

 

The Christmas season had never been particularly important to him, but the past four years it had become an increasingly more pathetic pity party, fuelled almost entirely by his inability to suck it up and just call Sam, and beg for forgiveness or an apology or whatever the hell it was he felt he was owed. He knew where Sam _was_ , after all - he'd be pretty shit as his job if he couldn't even keep track of his last living family member - but it was a standoff he couldn't bear to be the first to call off. Call it pride. Or maybe just straight-up fear.

 

As long as he didn't speak to Sam, he could at least pretend they were just two dudes living different lives who just didn't have enough time to chat.

 

Dean swallows the thoughts with the last big gulp of beer in the bottle, dropping it back in the carrier bag and grabbing another. Eventually, when the warm buzz wears off and he remembers the hypothermia danger, he'll stumble over to the recycle bins and dispose of them all environmentally friendly-like, stumble home, and regret giving in to the urge to wallow in five hours time when he wakes up with the mother of all hangovers.

 

As he pops the cap, he hears a crunch in the snow, and before him, a vision.

 

"Hello," says the man.

 

"Hi," says Dean.

*** * ***

"Now hold on a second," interrupts Zachariah. "You were _asked_ to begin from the _beginning_. What's with the meet-cute?"

 

Castiel frowns. "This _is_ the beginning."

 

"Don't get smart, kid. There are about a hundred regulations you should've abided by before you ended up in some podunk park. What-"

 

Naomi doesn't say anything, or particularly change the expression on what is passing for her face, but the whole room knows to fall silent. "We can dig into the technicalities later," she says, a relaxed hum about her that nonetheless bodes no argument. "Let Castiel tell us what he thinks is important."

 

"Thank you," Castiel says. Good manners cost naught, after all.

*** * ***

'Hi' instantly feels like a ridiculous thing to say, but the damage is done. The man smiles, though, and Dean, drunk as he is, can't resist turning on the Winchester charm.

 

"Come here often?" he asks, and instantly regrets it. The hell kind of 'charm' is that?

 

"No," says the man, but he's smiling, and something not related to the nine or ten or however many beers it is now warms Dean on the inside. "Do you?"

 

"Only when I'm hoping to bump into handsome guys. Never fails," he says, brushing the light layer of snow off the rest of the bench and stretching his arm across the back, as good an invitation as he can offer. The man takes it, adjusting his pale overcoat, and sitting a little closer to Dean than social convention usually dictates. Well, okay, a _lot_ closer, but the guy radiates heat like the world's coziest log fire, and Dean _is_ trying to flirt with him, so he chalks it up as a win. Dean offers the guy his last beer - and, okay, that must mean he's on number eleven, which means it's _totally_ legit to try and pick up guys in his local park - which the guy holds lightly, like he's not sure what to do with it.

 

Dean takes a sip, and the guy studies him, before trying to take his own. When he moves the bottle away from his lips, Dean notices he hasn't even popped the cap, and laughs. "Here, let me help you with that," he offers, taking his arm off the back of the bench and twisting it off. "Works better like that, I find."

 

The guy nods his head in thanks, and takes a long draft of the bottle. "I see what you mean," he says eventually, but doesn't move to take a sip again, even as Dean all but chugs his own. The dude is making him kinda nervous, somehow, but the good kind of nervous, the kind filled with anticipation about where this could go next. Maybe they could hit a bar together or something. Who knew wallowing was a good strategy for meeting people?

 

Dean moves his arm to the back of the bench again, cautiously. Even in his drunken state, he doesn't wanna come on too strong, or get up in the guy's space without permission. "So," he says, "What brings you here?"

 

The guy gives Dean a considering look, and smiles again. "You," he says simply. "I want to make you happy, I think."

 

"Yeah?" says Dean, brow raised. "What kind of 'happy'?"

 

The guy pulls Dean's arm around his shoulders. "Whatever suits," is all he says.

 

Nine-tenths of the fault for what he says next falls with the eleven beers. Maybe seven-tenths. Or less. The other half of the fault, Dean tries not to ascribe to a desperate loneliness that tells him even random sex with a random hot guy he met in a community park will be better than another night sat in front of the TV watch reruns of bad hospital soaps and feeling sorry for himself.

 

"Wanna come home with me?"

*** * ***

It takes everything in his power to not just push the guy up against any wall on the way home and start making out, because as soon as he'd said 'Yes' with an extraordinarily pleased smile, Dean's libido had leapt out of whatever closet he'd been storing it in, and gone around his whole body like a town crier announcing a free beer and bacon party, everyone invited! It had been a cold few months since his last hook-up, and a man has needs. The minute there door is closed behind him, though, his jacket and overshirt are off quicker than he thought strictly possible while inebriated.

 

The guy is stood stock-still, looking around in interest, and Dean has really got to stop thinking of him like that if this is gonna work. "Hey, what can I call you?"

 

"Cas," says Cas.

 

"I'm Dean," says Dean, moving in closer and tugging at the lapels of Cas' overcoat. "Now that introductions are outta the way, shall we get a little better _acquainted_?"

*** * ***

"Castiel," says Naomi abruptly.

 

"Yes?"

 

"I believe we could do _without_ further detail in this part of your account," she says, severely.

 

There's a low hum of disapproval in the courtroom, and, worryingly, even Zachariah looks put out. "Is this a 'technical detail' we'll get into later?" he asks.

 

"Absolutely not," says Naomi, and Castiel gives an internal sigh of relief, even as the audience gives one of discontent. As exciting as the experience had been, he wasn't particularly keen on sharing it with an audience. "As you were, then," Naomi says finally, once the gathered crowd has calmed down.

*** * ***

When Dean wakes up, his body feels as though it is firmly on the fence between the complete satisfaction of a good night and the devastation of a bad hangover. He forgets _every_ time that he and cheap beer do not good bedfellows make.

 

When he finally pries his eyes open _without_ the sun completely blinding him as it cheerfully streams through the blinds he was sure he'd shut last night, glancing around, he sees that he _did_ make good bedfellows with _someone_ last night.

 

Strike one for Winchester. Even drunk and pitiable, he can score.

 

He ambles over to the en suite to freshen up a little, pulling on a pair of boxers and a tee so he looks at least a mite presentable should his fling still be around; given how he woke up alone, Dean thinks he might just be out of luck on that front. Which, well, sucks, but it's to be expected. Generally speaking, long-lasting relationships don't come out of picking dudes up practically off the street.

 

He allows himself a moment of disappointment as he brushes his teeth, until he caught the unmistakeable scent of bacon.

 

This is, officially, now the best one-night stand ever, or one of his colleagues has broken into his apartment to stage an intervention, and he's really hoping it's the former.

 

As he walks into the kitchen, he sees the guy - Cas - stood ramrod straight in front of the stove, thick hair standing on end in places where Dean couldn't quite resist digging his hands, shirt-tails just about covering where _he_ clearly hasn't worried about being presentable.

 

"Are you cooking me breakfast?" Dean asks, unsure if it's bad etiquette to lean in close and try for a kiss. Did they kiss last night? He settles for closing a hand on the guy's shoulder. That's casual, right?

 

"Good morning, Dean," Cas says in response, giving him a little sideway smile and scooping the overcoloured bacon onto a waiting plate of toast. He turns the dial on the gas off cautiously, and offers the plate to him.

 

Naturally, he takes it - how could he say no?! - and sits at the unusually uncluttered table the landlord had tried to sell as breakfast bar. Looking around, he sees that all the junk he'd left piled on top the night before is where he'd been meaning to put it each time he'd looked at the mess and decided it could wait another day. Which, beneath the fog of hangover, actually seemed a little creepy. "None for yourself?" he asks, as Cas looks at him expectantly.

 

When he doesn't get an answer, Dean shrugs and digs in. The bacon is exactly the way he likes it, but can never quite manage to get himself - overcooked to the point where the fat has started to gone all crunchy and dark, and before it gets so tough it's more suited to bootmaking. "Thanks," he eventually offers, and Cas nods, one hand pulling at the undershirt he's wearing like he just clocked it's not polite to have one's junk out at the breakfast table. Not that Dean's complaining, particularly.

 

"So," he says, polishing off the crumbs and starting to feel a little unsure if he should be creeped out by the way Cas has been watching him the past few minutes, "you need a ride to work or anything?"

 

"Work?"

 

"Guess not? I forget not everyone has to go in on Saturday's." Checking his watch, Dean thinks maybe he'll have to skip today himself. Maybe Henrickson won't be pissed? (No, he'll definitely be pissed.) "Maybe a ride home? Unless you were hoping to stick around?"

 

Cas stops tugging at his shirt tails, looking at Dean straight on with the smallest downturn of a lip. "This is home."

 

"Uh, yeah buddy, _my_ home."

 

"Yes."

 

Dean was pretty sure Cas had been sober when they'd met, and was sober right now, but it was increasingly likely he was wrong. "So do you want me to drop you at _your_ home?"

 

The lip is joined by a downturn of eyebrows. "I don't understand."

 

"You and me both," says Dean, sighing.

 

"You said we were going home, last night. Are we not here?"

 

"No, dude, we're in _my_ \- look, I'm not going round in circles with this again! What _exactly_ do you think is happening here?"

 

"You're unhappy," says Cas, with a tone like he's observing the weather, or a particularly interesting bug, and Den's happy good-times buzz is indeed rapidly plummeting with the increasing strangeness of this whole conversation. It would be just his luck to pick up the one dude who turned out to be a sexy axe murderer. Before _Christmas_ , no less! "I offered to make you happy again, and you brought me home. This is home now," he says, with a sure nod.

 

"Okay," Dean says, carefully. "I think we've got some wires crossed here. I _invited_ you into _my_ home. It's not yours now!"

 

"But you said-"

 

"No, stop right there! I ain't finished playing twenty questions just yet! Were you in the park looking for somewhere to stay? Is that it?"

 

Cas frowns properly then, and Dean hopes it's because what he's saying is starting to sink in. "No," he says, eventually, but there's an edge of question to it that starts to dig at all of Dean's career-honed skills, and he forces himself to relax. The guy has clearly got his wires on this muddled up at a fundamental level, and Dean owes it to him to set things straight without behaving like a raging douche.

 

"Okay," Dean says again, and tries to figure out exactly how to tactfully pose this question. "So last night," he begins, trying to think in the entirely flat terms Cas seems to be doing, "you didn't have a home? Is that right?"

 

"I didn't need one," says Cas, and he looks at Dean as though this is something he should already know, like Dean just asked 'hey, the sky _is_ blue, right?'. There is a huge, politely missed-off 'duh' at the end of the sentence.

 

"Sure, Cas, you didn't need one. Where did you stay the night before last, then?"

 

Cas looks away from him momentarily, eyelids narrowed, eyes moving left-to-right-to-left beneath them without really looking at anything surrounding him. Eventually, he looks back to Dean, and stiffly raises his shoulders, like he's only seen shrugging done before and hasn't had a chance to try it out himself. Thinking back over last night's... _activities_ without the sheen of booze and horniness colouring them, he realises Cas was like this then, too. Sure, he'd been a fairly eager participant, but his movements had been stilted, directed; he'd rarely made a move first. Dean'd chalked it up to nerves, but now he was entirely unsure.

 

"You don't know the address?" Dean ventures.

 

"There wasn't a night before."

 

"The night before that..?"

 

Cas gives a little huff, the kind Sam used to give when he was trying to explain some allegedly simple tort issue that flew right over his head. "There aren't _any_ previous nights. Just last night. In the park. There's nothing before that."

 

Well, shit. Guess Dean's work is coming _to_ him now.


	3. Chapter 2

"So you had no memory of yourself?" asks Naomi, though Castiel doubts the clarification is for her benefit.

 

"Some," he says. "I knew my own name, and of Dean. I was... somewhat aware of my mission."

 

"Ah," says Zachariah, with all the glee of someone about to show their full house at the last table. "This 'mission' that you set yourself, huh? The Winchester wallow-be-gone special?"

 

Castiel frowns. "I didn't -"

 

"Enough," says Naomi. "Another technicality we'll address later." She holds a moment, but her posture doesn't allow for either Zachariah to make further digs or for him to continue his tale. "Despite this disadvantage, you still chose to-"

 

"Yes," he says sharply. The crowd's hum had started to get a little _too_ interested again, and he was rather determined to disappoint their need for details.

 

"A poor decision," Naomi says primly, reminding all it was her who had insisted in keeping these proceedings strictly PG, and that she had most definitely mot been caught up in the hive mind's usual need to overshare.

 

"For both of us," Castiel agrees. "But, to borrow a phrase, totally worth it."

*** * ***

Henrickson is gonna be mega-pissed at him, and Dean had kinda been hoping to let himself be entirely distracted from than about ten minutes ago, but now he's mostly freaking out internally about now being contender for the grossest, skeeviest, most horrible dude-of-the-year award ever and he really needs the angry voice of his boss to calm him down.

 

He can't stop pacing as the phone rings out, catching Cas staring at him in concern while he holds the pile of clothes Dean had dumped on him like he's waiting for them to bite. "Please, _please_ put them on," he asks, as the office line finally picks up. "Victor! Hey, uh, man, I got a _huge_ problem that's making me run late."

 

"Don't 'Victor' me, Winchester. What the hell kind of time d'you call this?" Ah yes, there it was, the soothing irritation only he could bring out in Dean. If there was one thing to be said of his relationship with his boss, it was that they were excellent at egging the other into action though pure force of jerkishness.

 

"Aw, now don't be like that! Were you worrying about me? I told you before, dude, sometimes you just gotta let a bird flap it's wings or whatever."

 

Victor sighs on the other end of the line, and Dean is almost certain he's in for a proper bollocking. "If you're talking this much shit, it must be a _real_ big problem. What's the matter? Hook-up too clingy?"

 

"You don't know the half of it," says Dean. Pausing mid-pace, he sees Cas still looking at him like Dean handed him a stack of bad novels he has no interest in reading. His patience is fraying by the second, the wave of good-time-goodness completely vanquished and leaving him with only a hangover bad enough to curdle all the milk in his apartment building. "For the love of god, could you at least put some pants on?" he says, hand covering the mic on the end of his phone, but he doesn't know why he bothers. Victor's got ears like a bat, even over a bad cell line. Cas gives him a look that has had far too little time to become so long-suffering, sets the rest of the clothes neatly on the counter, and turns around, starting to bend over to get one leg in and almost, if he hadn't performed a 180 turn so quickly he could almost see stars, leaving Dean with a view that would have him be the _only_ one nominated for the no-good- super-gross guy of the decade award.

 

Someone, somewhere, was well and truly determined to test him.

 

He could hear the exact expression of disbelief on Victor's face purely from the way he was breathing over the line. "Look, what do you know about amnesia?"

 

"Other than wishing I could forget this entire call?"

 

"Ha-friggin-ha. Look, I know this is gonna be hard for you, but please, _please_ just answer without asking _any_ questions about what I'm getting into for the next three minutes. If I told you I met a guy who doesn't seem to remember anything past last night, should I be rushing him back to a hospital for like, car crash treatment or something??"

 

He can hear the strain it takes for Victor to not start spouting off more shit at him, but the need to be the smartest guy in any room is clearly winning out. "Probably not," he says. "Usually when people get amnesia from physical trauma, they lose motor function, or chunks of stuff, not everything. Are we talking TV-style amnesia?"

 

"Kinda," Dean says, scratching the back of his neck and chancing a look over his shoulder. Praise Xenu, Cas is half-way decent! "Like, he gave me his name, but I don't think he knows anything else about himself. And I mean more a straight-up not-understanding-the-question deal, total blank slate."

 

Victor hums, the tone of it saying an awful lot more than Dean's up to parsing right this second. "I'm guessing he's not bleeding out or covered in bandages? Sounds more like something psychological to me. A fugue state could cause something like that, maybe, or some kind of seizure, but don't quote me on that." Victor falls quiet a moment, while Dean sorts through what he's just explained, not sure if it spells out 'dump the guy at the nearest hospital' or not. "Dean, I _really_ don't want to know what the hell you got up to last night, but I do need to know if you're coming in today. I'm guessing no?"

 

Dean scrubs a hand across his face. Why the hell did his morning have to go from awesome to rock bottom so quickly? "No, dude, I'll be in. I've 'found' a guy, makes sense to see if anyone's missing him, right? It's like doing our job in reverse." The landline's started ringing, and Cas is looking at intently, like he's trying to psychically answer it. Or like he has no idea what it is, who knows at this stage? "Just leave it," he says, because the only people who ever call on landlines are telemarketers or people who want paying. "And could you please sit down? You're making me nervous like that." Cas gives him a withering look, and for a guy who was all about the happy-making ten minutes ago, he's got a hell of an attitude. "Gimme like, an hour?" he tells Victor. "Just stick my phone number on the door or something til I get there, is that penance enough for tardiness?"

 

Whatever Victor says in response is completely lost on him, as Dean drops the phone at the unmistakeable voice he hears over the answering machine, saying, simply, "Dean?"

*** * ***

Dean stands stock-still, unsure if moving will break whatever magic spell has been cast that would had clearly resulted in Sam calling him.

 

Sam.

 

_Calling him._

"I hope this is your number," Sam says, an edge of unsureity in his voice like he's worried he might just be clogging up some strangers voice mail. Why had he never gotten round to recording a message? "Only, you were kinda slurring the digits in your message." There's a pause, like Sam doesn't know what to say, and Dean sure as hell hasn't got a clue. How do you start a conversation that'd been years in the making?

 

Cas is continuing his own silent act, staring Dean down and then looking meaningfully at the phone.

 

"Did you," says Dean, stumbling over his words. "How did- was it-"

 

"Dean," he says, simply. "Answer him."

 

"Look," says Sam, to the machine, "maybe this was--"

 

\--and Dean doesn't allow him to finish that sentence, finally spurring himself to action and grabbing at the phone with far less finesse than intended. "Sam," he says. "Hey, Sam."

*** * ***

"Did you do that?" Dean asks in a daze, slumping next to Cas on the sofa. Cas is looking at him with an expression of pure serenity, and in the face of that Dean can't look him in the eye. The guy hasn't managed to button his shirt up, and the jeans Dean threw at him look a little big. "I mean, I don't see how you could have, but did you?"

 

"In a way," says Cas. "You were fairly easy to persuade, last night."

 

Dean abruptly remembers a brief interval in the evening, with clarity like he's broken a dream. They were giggling - well, _he_ was giggling, the extra few shots of whiskey had been to blame for that - and Dean had gotten all maudlin about holidays and Sam and messed-up families, and Cas had handed him the phone and wow, he'd left, on reflection, an extraordinarily embarrassing voice message.

*** * ***

_"Heeeeeeey, Sammy!" Dean cheers into the phone. "Long time no speak, little brother! Listen, I like, I miss you so much, Sam, how come you never call me? Your big brother not cool enough for you anymore?" He's buzzed - well, he'd have to be to think this was the brilliant idea it CLEARLY was - but asking a question he's pretty sure he knows the answer to is making him more than a little self-aware. "Look, everything that happened, I don't blame you for high-tailing it outta here as soon as you could. I mean, you've really made something for yourself, y'know? Hah, I've still got an eye on you like the overbearing ass you always said I was, right?" A laugh dies in his throat, it closing up on him without warning. He feels warms at his side, looks to see Cas leaning right near him, not touching, but ever so close. He's almost distracted by the want to the fine marks across the whole of his back, a tattoo like the bloom of lightning, but Cas looks at him expectantly_

_"Everything I said at the funeral - I know it makes me a jerk but it, it stands true. I was a real dick about it, but it does. But I get it, Sammy, I do. Dad meant something different to me than he did to you, and that's fine, and I was- haha, I bet you're gonna love having this recorded, you can play it back whenever you want, huh? - I was totally wrong to, uh, try to tell you how to feel about him. I kept thinking it just hurt me more than it did you, like you were still that snot-nosed little brat who just wouldn't do what he was told, but, uh. You just hurt different. I know that now, I mean, I knew it like a week after I cursed you out, and I've just been waitin' for you to make the first move so I could say sorry. You've always tried to be the better man, but I guess it's my turn to step up, ain't it?_

_"I'm just, uh. Really sick of not talking, Sammy, so, ball's in your court. Call me if you wanna hear that grovelling apology I bet you've been waiting all these years for." He hangs up quickly after reciting his home phone number, and gives Cas a smile, pulling him in the last few millimetres to hit contact. "You were right," he says, "I feel kinda... lighter. Better."_

_Cas gives him a look that is positively devious. "Shall we see just how much better you can feel?"_

_"Now_ that _is a plan I'm behind."_

*** * ***

Dean groans, because for a moment he's stuck somewhere between happy at finally speaking to his practically long-lost brother, and really frustrated that he's only done so thanks to the meddling of a guy who he really, _really_ should have asked a few pertinent questions of before sleeping with. "Great," he says, "not only am I taking life advice from a guy who doesn't know who he is, but it's _working_."

 

"I know who I am, Dean," says Cas, a weight in his tone that Dean's prepared not to take lightly.

 

"Yeah? Care to elaborate?"

 

"I am Castiel," he says, with a kind of gravitas that would seem silly on anyone else, but works perfectly for him. "And I'm here to help you."

 

Dean waits. Cas - Cas _tiel_ \- keeps looking at him like he's expecting this to be Dean's eureka moment, like those words are definitely the key to Dean understanding what the hell's going on here. When it becomes apparent that this is the entirety of Cas' spiel, he flops heavily against the back of the sofa with a drawn-out sigh. "That's it, that's all you got for me?"

 

"Yes."

 

"That tells me _absolutely nothing_ about you!"

 

Cas' expression spells out 'I don't see what more you could want' more clearly than Dean had thought minor eye movements could make possible. "Right," he says, spurning himself into action. "You're coming with me, I gotta go to work and _we_ are gonna figure out one or two things about you, capishe?"

 

"Yes, Dean," says Cas, tone much like that of someone who's getting a bit bored of humouring a ten-year-old, "I capishe."

 

"That's not how you-- just get your coat, all right?"

 

Dean can already see this is going to be a _long_ day.


	4. Chapter 3

Cas spends the entire ride to the office looking extraordinarily uncomfortable.

 

"What's the matter?" Dean eventually asks, as they pull up outside. Even from here, he can see Victor really _has_ pasted his phone number on the door, along with a sarcastic note he'll be sure to crumple up and trash before reading. "Don't like cars?"

 

"It's confining," says Cas. "And slow."

 

"Hey, I won't tolerate slander of that kind against my baby! He didn't mean it, girl."

 

Cas pushes at the door now they've stopped, only twigging that there's a handle when Dean gestures to it pointedly. "I don't believe it's a feeling unique to your car," he says, and Dean is pretty sure he's trying to be placating. At least he's making the effort. He digs the office keys out of his pocket with one hand, the other leading Cas by the elbow to, and once he's fumbled enough to get the door open, into the building, lest he wander off or something.

 

The office is, thankfully, empty. While the PI firm Victor runs isn't exactly huge, and the only ones ever really meant to be manning the desks on Saturdays are Victor and himself, Dean has all too often disrupted someone's frantic all-nighter to get a dossier together for a client coming in on Monday. Victor had set the firm up to be something of an alternative to the only other ace dick in the city, and had laid down some pretty stringent rules on the kind of jobs they picked up, but Dean was pretty sure placing an amnesiac dude fell within the guidelines.

 

He sit's Cas down in the chair facing his, trying not to think on how his serious expression, matched with the tan overcoat, made him look like a hardboiled noir detective. All he needed was the hat and the voice over.

 

"You're smiling," says Cas. "You enjoy your purpose here, yes?"

 

"Yeah," Dean agrees thoughtlessly. "But we're not here because of me. Not entirely, anyway. Can you really not remember anything before the park last night?"

 

Cas gives a huff, and adjusts his coat minutely. "There isn't anything before that," he says. "Why do you keep asking?"

 

"Because, Cas, people don't grow on trees! There should be years and _years_ of memories before last night, and if there's not, there's a problem."

 

"I don't see how there is," says Cas, frustration evidence in the way his lip curls downward. "Why can't you take what I say as writ?"

 

"Because," Dean says, "you not remembering or caring or whatever right now doesn't stop there being people out there who might be looking for you, okay? You could have a family out there, worried sick that you've just up and vanished! Look, I can't just keep you in my apartment without making sure there isn't some freaked out spouse out there pulling their hair out on account of you, that would make me a terrible person."

 

"I don't mind," says Cas.

 

" _I_ do," says Dean, as the computer takes the usual 3 hours to boot up. Charlie always seemed to have her pc running lightning-fast, he really needed to convince her to fix his. "Just sit tight, would you? This'll probably take a while."

 

He starts off with the basics; state missing persons reports, and those filed with the office, but it turns out 'mid-30's tallish dude with dark hair' cast a far wider net than he'd expected. "Go figure," he says, looking up at Cas, who looks to be rather literally sitting tight, picking at the knees of the overlarge jeans. "There's plenty guys vanishing on their families. Probably not for the same reasons you might've," he adds hastily. Somehow, he gets the feeling even if he trawled through every picture in these records, he wouldn't find Cas.

 

"When do you expect you'll be satisfied with your search?" Cas says, pointedly. "I preferred being home to being here, when can we return?"

 

"Cas, this could take days-"

 

"I won't comment on your car again," he promises.

 

"-and you really can't call my place 'home' just because you don't know what your own is, okay? You've been in there for like, eight, nine hours, max, that's not long enough to start calling it home." Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Until we can work through what's going on with you, you can stay on the couch, okay? I'm not gonna kick you out on the street or anything, but you've gotta understand this isn't a permanent situations."

 

The expression Cas is wearing was souring with every word, but he does little more than sulk. It's aggravating as hell that Cas doesn't _get_ it, but ultimately Dean has to keep that frustration tamped down. He can't imagine what must be going on in there, or how confusing this whole situation must be to him, so the very best thing he can do is just, try to explain it from his point of view without being his patented jackass self.

 

Less than a day into an acquaintance and Cas has already helped reunite his family. The least he can do is try return the favour.

 

It's a good half-hour of trawling through records - just in case one of these guys _is_ Cas - in silence before the guy says anything.

 

"What if I want to be?"

 

"Huh?"

 

"What if I want it to be permanent?"

 

"No, Cas, listen-"

 

"No," he says, placing his hands firmly on the desk, like he's trying to make a gesture of reasonableness. "I want to stay with you. I want to make you happy."

 

"You just met me," Dean says, trying not to let out another sigh or bash his head against the desk.

 

"And?"

 

"That's not how these things work! You can't just pick the first guy you see and decide 'that's it!' You're supposed to be thinking about your own happiness, not some random dude's!"

 

Cas' hands twitch, like he's resisting making a fist or slamming down on the desk. "You aren't listening to me. I have told you what I want."

 

"Yeah, and that's bullshit." Dean drops his head in his hands, as Cas glowers at him. "Look, I'm not gonna stop you going off and doing whatever you like, you're a grown man, blank slate or not. But on this? I'm pretty sure you're wrong, and that means I gotta do everything I can to get you back home. Wherever that is."

 

Cas narrows his eyes further, studying Dean intently. Even as he focuses back on the screen, he finds it hard to focus under such scrutiny. Eventually, it gets too much, and he pulls open his desk drawer with far too much force, rifling among the varied paper-copy files and incriminating photo logs for a book Bela lent him that he's never got round to returning. "Here," he says, placing it in front of Cas with as much restraint as he's willing to muster right now. "You've gotta be bored by now, knock yourself out. And go sit on the couch," Dean adds, gesturing at where it sits in the corner of the room, not facing his desk directly, "you're really distracting me just sittin' there, y'know?"

 

Joy of joys, Cas does what's asked of him, and Dean gets a blessed ten minutes of silence to think about whether Cas had any unusual features that might crop up on a report. Crazy tattoos counted, right?

 

"What if you're wrong?" Cas eventually asks, and when Dean looks up at him, he's facing away, looking at the book with an intensity it little deserves. Guess amnesia doesn't rid one of passive aggression. "And it _is_ as I say?"

 

"Well," says Dean, knowing the answer he gives means nothing other than 'I have no clue', "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

*** * ***

Dean manages to plough through a pretty considerable amount of information - unsuccessfully so far, sure, but everything he crosses off the list narrows it down - before his stomach can't take being ignored any longer. Checking the time, he sees it's much further into the afternoon than he'd expected, but Saturdays are always like this. Without the hustle of his fellow colleagues to distract him, Dean can plug in for hours - and on very special occasions, days - at a time without noting what's happening around him. While Cas had seemed determined to disrupt him for the first hour or so, the guy had seemed to twig that he wasn't going to get his way, not just yet at least, and finally settled down.

 

Looking up at the sofa, though, he figures there might be another reason for the quiet vibe.

 

He wasn't ever going to admit to instantly thinking it adorable, but the way Cas' head was tilted against the backrest, hands rested on top of the open book in his lap, feet still planted firmly on the floor, like the catnap he must have been indulging in the last couple hours had snuck up on him unawares, really is kinda cute, and if he wants to actually help this guy instead of fawning over him, he's really got a lot of work to do. It can start with not ogling the sleeping dude.

 

"Up and attem," he says, none too gently, giving Cas' shoulder a quick shake for the complete effect. "I'm starved, and you must be too by now."

 

"What?" is all Castiel says in response, startling from his reclining position and then looking around wildly. "It's dark outside," is all else he adds, as Dean pulls him up by the elbow and shoves the coat he'd taken off at some point in his arms.

 

"That's what happens in winter, dude, it gets dark early. Your eggs really that scrambled?"

 

"No," says Cas, dismissively. "I was momentarily surprised. What are we doing?"

 

"Eating," says Dean, leading Cas out the office and locking up behind him. It might be a little early to leave, especially considering he started so late, but clients dropping in on a Saturday evening was pretty unusual, even in the busy season.

 

"Ah," says Cas, "Would you like me to cook again?"

 

"No, no, we're going out somewhere, okay? I already told you I don't want you doing that stuff." He pauses in front of his car, remembering his journey from earlier. "You all right riding in the car, or do you wanna save that til later?"

 

"Later, please," say Cas, and smiles. "Thank you for your consideration."

 

Dean damn near blushes. There's something about Cas, when he's being all cute and polite, that makes him feel all churned up inside, and it's really frustrating that a guy he has known less than a full day can do that to him.

 

(If he does blush, he's just gonna blame it on the cold.)

 

They walk a while in companionable silence, heading toward a diner on the next street over he and the team sometimes eat together in. It's not the greatest in the world, but they know him well enough to remember what fixings to put in his burger without him having to ask, and that's good enough as far as he's concerned.

 

"You've finished searching, then?" Cas asks hopefully, once they're seated in a booth a ways from anyone else.

 

"For today," says Dean, internally a little peeved that he hasn't been more successful. He's starting to think he might have to look out of state, and that's one hell of a time sink.

 

"Oh," says Cas, disappointment evident. "When do you believe we'll need to cross the bridge?"

 

"Cross the--? Oh, uh. I dunno yet. There's still a lotta work to do, and-" he holds up a hand, trying to cut off the annoyed downturn of a lip Cas gives as a response, "I know you don't think this is a worthwhile exercise, but it's still something I gotta do. I've handled way too many missing persons from the other end to just say 'fuck it', y'know?"

 

"I don't know," says Cas, and there's more than a bite of sarcasm to it. "You don't believe I know anything, anyway."

 

"Listen," says Dean, holding his hands up. "I'm not gonna dump you on the police, or at a hospital or anything, but if you don't like how I do things, you're more than free to leave. I won't chase after you."

 

Cas looks almost like he concedes, placing his hands on the table and studying them intently. "You would," he says, eventually. "it's in your nature to care for people, no matter how much they don't wish to be cared for."

 

"You pick all that up from an afternoon with me?"

 

"Yes and no," he says, giving Dean a sly look. Eventually, he really does concede. "I don't agree with your method, but I will, uh, 'stick about'." An 'until you see things my way, at least', is tacked on the end purely through the meaningful arch of an eyebrow, and Dean can't help but give a 'try me' look back, immediately then focusing on his food to avoid just spending the whole night staring at amnesia-guy.

 

This is gonna be a _hard_ few days.


	5. Chapter 4

As the days go on, Dean feels as though he's getting further and further away from finding anyone bearing even a passing resemblance to Cas, and he's starting to find he doesn't much mind. Cas has a few odd quirks - well, if falling asleep in short, unsure bursts and having to be reminded to attend to a few normal bodily functions can be called quirks, anyway - but is probably the least disruptive housemate he's ever had. He is singularly focused on Dean, though, to a point that at turns makes him feel flattered and extremely nervous. I would be so bad, though, he finds himself thinking, if Cas just stuck around for a while.

 

That, of course, comes crashing down on him in the next call he makes.

 

It's only a cursory call, really; Charlie, in her infinite wisdom, had suggested he ring round the local hospitals, giving out a description of Cas to see if it matched with any recent John Doe admissions, or any missing patients. Cas has glared at her slightly from across the room, because as much as he'd agreed to stick with Dean, it hadn't made him like the idea any more than he already had.

 

"Oh, yeah," says the guy on the other end, "That sounds like an AWOL patient we had recently. If you could bring him to the hospital, one of the attending doctors could check him out?"

 

He doesn't remember saying yes, but knows he must have; ever the professional. He shuts down his computer, and waves for Cas to join him, glad he'd managed to convince the guy to ride in the car today. Cas follows him out with a smile Dean doesn't share.

 

"You've stopped early," he says, pleased, once they're both strapped in and cruising along. "Have you perhaps stopped completely?"

 

"For today," Dean concedes, not knowing what else to say. This feels like a betrayal somehow, despite how he'd _said_ this was what he'd do.

 

He didn't _have_ to though, did he? Dean could just leave Cas in the car, listen to what the guy at the hospital said - and it'd be a different guy they were looking for, like everyone else, and he could just drive them both home and call it a day.

 

Couldn't he?

*** * ***

"I'm here to see Dr Adler?" he asks the receptionist, having left Cas sitting on a waiting room chair with the least battered wooden toy he'd spotted. The man on reception gives him a blank look briefly, before shaking his head, dazed, and saying "Of course, he's in consulting room 5, you can go on through." When Dean thanks the receptionist, he looks blankly confused again, and Dean groans internally. He has a bad feeling about this, that he's not entirely sure can be separated from the inappropriate churney feeling he gets being near Cas.

 

As it is, Cas looks mighty suspicious when Dean collects him. "Why are we here?" he asks, stern.

 

"Eliminating a lead," he says. "Trust me, this is for the best, all right?"

*** * ***

Castiel, it turns out, is a man called James Novak.

 

James Novak, it turns out, is a man with a wife and daughter worried sick about him.

 

Dean, it turns out, feels awful.

 

When Dr Adler explains all this in calm, measured tones, there are minute changes on Cas' face that Dean knows means he is becoming more and more confused by what's being said to him, weighing what the good doctor says against when he _thinks_ he knows and finding it wanting. Dean just feels sad.

 

"That's not true," Cas says, eventually, in a much smaller voice than the one he uses with Dean.

 

"I'm afraid it is, James. I was treating you just the other day. It's a _complex condition_ ," he tells Dean, in a tone that rankles against him. He really hates anyone talking down to him. "Amelia will be _ever_ so glad to see you," he adds to Cas, simpering tone doing nothing to dismiss the toady image the guy is giving off, and Dean can imagine just how much a handful the guy must be, and he feels sad all over again.

 

He was all ready to make it _his_ handful.

 

The doctor grabs an orderly - a short guy who looks way too cheerful for Dean's liking - as Dean says his goodbyes. Or tries, at least.

 

"It' for the best, Cas," he promises, not entirely believing the words himself, but needing Cas to. "These people are your family, they're really worried about you."

 

"I don't know them," says Cas, bluntly. "I'm not interested. I already told you what I want."

 

"I know," says Dean, grabbing Cas' hands and grasping them between his own, "but these people came first. I know you don't know it right now, but you promised to make them happy too, at some point. And what would make me happy right now is knowing you're with people who care about you, all right?"

 

Cas shakes his head and pulls his hands away. "If that's what you want," he says, plaintively, and damnit if every selfish atom in his body isn't trying to just grab Cas and run and forget the whole thing, but. He can't.

 

"It isn't," he finally says out loud, as Cas gives him a solitary wave all the way down the corridor, following the jaunty orderly deeper into the hospital. It really isn't.

*** * ***

"Breathe in," Dean tells himself, "breathe out. You knew this was gonna happen, Winchester, hell you were _looking_ for it to. Don't chicken out now."

 

As self-motivating pep-talks go, it wasn't the worst he'd ever given himself, but it wasn't exactly gonna hit anyone's top ten most inspiring speeches any time soon. It's just a phone call, he reminds himself, a phone call he owes to a woman whose husband he has accidentally cheated with. Yeah, maybe leave that part out of the opener.

 

He does as he has told himself, breathing in, and out, and telling himself that he's about to give someone some really great news, _really_ great, and ignoring how much he's hoping no-one is home to take his call and he can just leave it to the hospital like a _sensible_ person would. This a stupid idea in its entirety; he knows no matter how happy the Novak family will be to have Cas - no, _James_ \- back with them, it's not gonna stop his heart aching, and being the one to break the news, really isn't gonna cut it in the feeling good about oneself stake, but. He has to try.

 

When a woman picks up on the third ring, it's really hard not to curse his good luck out loud. "Yeah uh, hi, is that Amelia Novak? I'm calling on behalf of County Hospital, I have some good news about your husband-"

 

"Wait," she cuts in, and there is something that sounds a lot like panic in her tone, which isn't exactly what he'd expect from a worried spouse. "Is this about Jimmy? Has something happened?"

 

"Uh, well, kind of?" Dean says, thrown way off his game. "I mean, he's been found."

 

"Found?"

 

"Err, yeah, found. I know he's been missing a few days, you must have been worried."

 

There is a dead silence on the line, where he waits for some kind of reaction. Cautious joy, maybe? Certainly not the flat-cold disbelief he eventually _does_ get. "Is this a joke?" Amelia says, and were they not talking over the phone Dean would be fairly worried for his own safety if he had to say yes. "I saw my husband _this morning_."

 

That completely throws him for a loop, and he mentally congratulates himself for not just shouting 'what?!' down the line. "Uh, he's about six foot, dark hair, blue eyes, kind of a distance runner's build? You definitely saw him today?" he asks.

 

"I know what he looks like," she says, sharply.

 

"Does he have any tattoos?"

 

"No," she says, "What _exactly_ is this about?"

 

"Uh," he stutters out, because right now, he has almost no clue himself what this is about. "Does your husband have any relatives that closely resemble him?" Dean eventually manages to get out, letting himself slip into work-speak as he builds a lie in his head.

 

"No," she says, "Now could you please explain what's going on?"

 

"Sure, ma'am," he says, the all-business tone doing an amazing job of covering up the confusion he's all but vibrating with. "Someone who looks a lot like your husband's come in, along with his insurance card. Based on what you've told me, it could be an honest mix-up, or it could be insurance fraud." For some reason, Dean found, people were always willing to go along with you if they thought you were gonna stop someone defrauding them. "Sorry to bother you." He hangs up before she can ask any more questions he doesn't have a real answer to, and, before he thinks better of it, turns the phone off in case she tries to ring him back or something.

 

"What the fuck?" he asks the walls. "What the hell does _that_ mean?"

 

"It _means_ ," says the short orderly from this morning, "that good men really _do_ grow on trees."

*** * ***

"Castiel," says Naomi, after the brief recess, and there's a touch of sadness on her foreboding voice. "You have told your story very well, and we _do_ understand your intent." There is a rippling in the audience, an uneasy kind of approval, as though they aren't sure if her words should be taken as red. He doesn't blame them. "In many respects, your behaviour was admirable, given the constraints you were working within.

 

"Nonetheless," she says, "your actions represent a massive breach of trust, and of protocol. From a model soldier like yourself, it's all the more disappointing."

 

Over the low, tense hum of disappointment in the room, Castiel feels a muted spike of spiteful glee from Zachariah. Not _everyone_ is that disappointed, then. He himself can only wait; whatever he'd expected from this mock trial, it hadn't been that they'd actually find him _guilty_ of anything. He may have bent a rule or two, but this hardly felt an appropriate response.

 

"Picking a horse to back is one thing," says Zachariah, "but taking a _vessel_ to do it? In _this_ economy? Kid, I figured an upstart like you'd know better."

 

Castiel stares long and hard at him, eyes narrowing in confusion. "This isn't a vessel," he says, slowly, as he might if trying to explain a difficult formula to a child.

 

"What?" says the courtroom.


	6. Chapter 5

"Uh," says Dean, " _what_?"

 

The man shrugs his shoulders. "Think about it, dude. Guy appears in park, wants nothing more than to cheer your pathetic ass up, definitely _isn't_ some Samantha Who wannabe, what else could it be?"

 

"Have you been _stalking_ me or something?!"

 

"Chill out, Deano," says the man, instantly getting Dean's hackles up. If there's one thing he hates more than that nickname, it's talking to anyone who acts like a knowing dick. "I'm just trying to help you out here! Consider it a favour."

 

"What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

 

"Okay, okay," says the guy, holding his hands out in mock surrender. "You got me! I felt kinda bad for wrapping you up in my joke, so I figured, why not exposition it out for you?"

 

Dean is about ready to throttle the guy. "Right now, you are doing a _really_ shitty job of that! Who the hell are you, and what the hell are you-- actually, just 'what the hell'?!"

 

"Just call me..." drawls the man, pausing to pop bubblegum in his mouth, "Scarlip."

 

"I'm not calling you that," says Dean.

 

"Your loss," says the probably not really named Scarlip. He chews on the gum in a way that has _got_ to be that loud on purpose. "Anyways, what was I saying? Men growing on trees. Or, things that look like men, anyway! D'you seriously think a guy like your Cas is human?"

 

"So what, he's an _alien_?"

 

"No, no, nothing as exotic as that. Just your average home-grown angel."

 

It's really only the loud _smack_ noise the dude makes that informs Dean he may have just slammed him up against the wall, but, given all that's happened, he doesn't feel particularly bad for the hair-trigger reaction. "I have had a _very stressful day_ ," he tells not-Scarlip, "And I am _really_ not in the mood to be jerked around by jackasses who don't know when to quit. Am I clear?"

 

"Crystal," says the man, sitting, legs casually crossed, in the bucket chair across the room. He blows a bubble as Dean splutters in confusion, popping it loudly for effect. "You gonna listen now?"

 

Does he really have a choice?

 

As he slowly sits down, the guy smiles. "Thaaat's more like it! So, as I was sayin', your new beau is a good ol'-fashioned seraph. Good kid, kinda straight laced, spent all his time mooning over you lot since the last big battle. And, ya know, a couple thousand years just starin' at people tends to get one a little stir crazy, so when he sees your sorry ass pining away of a winter's night, he says, 'Oh golly gee, Scarface, I just _gotta_ help that poor rube down there, could ya help a fella out?'"

 

"I thought it was Scarlip?"

 

"Scarface sounds cooler. So I says, 'sure little buddy, down ya go!' and there he goes, propositioning you in a public park. I gotta give him points for style on that, man."

 

Dean sighs loudly, because this story is about as bonkers as it gets, and he's annoyed at the tiny part of him that wants to believe what the guy is saying. To believe what his mom used to tell him at night is true. "I thought angels were all diapers and harps," he says, because a tiny speck of hope isn't enough to completely override his sarcasmotron. "Why'd he look like an 80s detective?"

 

"Now this," says Scardick, "is where I _actually_ come in. Y'see, upstairs it's all diapers and harps and Hallmark cards and fundamental particles. Angel's are like Schrödinger's cat without the box, so, they need a box to come visit. A _vessel_. Usually some poor schmoe like the guy whose wife you just freaked out. Only, there's a no-dicking-around-on-Earth rule in force right now, so to come cheer you up, Cas would've had to break waaaaaaaay more rules than a stickler like him can stomach, so, there I am, like the charitable guy I am, and make a golem for him to fit himself into, and, voila! You get a shoulder-angel without the rule breaking or brainscorching usually involved."

 

Scarwhatever looks at him expectantly, like he's supposed to say 'thank you' or something. "I don't know how you didn't notice this, since _you were doing it_ , but he just got dragged away by his doctor! Now maybe he isn't this Jimmy guy, but--"

 

"Oh, that guy?" says Scar. No, even just thinking _that_ is too cool-sounding for this absolute dickweasel. "Yeah, he wasn't a doctor, he was Cas' _boss_ , and man, he has gotta be pissed! One of his best and brightest showing him up?"

 

"So, what, they beamed him back up? To Heaven?"

 

"Pretty much! If you bothered to go round the staff after this chat, they'd tell you there's no Dr Adler on record, and no Novak either. To be honest," he says, leaning forward and speaking much quieter, "I'm only _really_ here because you took the step of calling the vessel's wife. If you'd left it at that, I woulda left you none the wiser, but I _do_ feel kinda bad involving you in this whole joke. Almost. You woulda spent way too much time tryin' to get to the bottom of this mystery without me to explain that it's just aliens!"

 

"Angels," Dean says.

 

"Now you're getting it!"

 

"So if he was just, like, _bending_ a rule or two hanging around me, why drag him off?"

 

The guy laughs. "Right! I'm not totally done with the story. See, what _they_ don't know is it's a golem! So as far as they're concerned, one of their best soldiers, the most meticulously rule-stickey guy around, the one they're all tipping for bigger and brighter things in a few millennia, has basically gone rogue. You might've noticed, but angels are pretty singular in their purpose, so it's no wonder they caught up to him so quickly. I'm honestly surprised they didn't just straight-up zap him away when your back was turned."

 

"Wait," Dean says, suspending every part of him that's not on-board with this probably-complete-and-utter-bullshit story, his blood running cold, "Is he in trouble?"

 

"Yeah, I guess? They'll probably court marshal him, y'know, lock him up or give him a really shitty job to do for a few centuries before they work out he didn't _actually_ do anything wrong. It's kinda the best part of the prank, y'know? Like those brick jokes-"

 

"You think this is a _joke_?" says Dean, rather louder than he intended. He did, however, need to be heard over the sound of the chair he just smashed into the wall.

 

"Yeah," says the man, not even bothering to shrug. "What of it?"

 

"Bring him back," says Dean, not entirely surprised at the hint of desperation in his voice. "Or- or just explain to them they've got it all wrong, or I swear to god I'll--"

 

"You'll what?" he says, snidely, suddenly right up in Dean's space, towering over him in a way that has nothing to do with his stature. "I made a _body_ for an _angel_ with the same amount of effort it takes you to toast a poptart. What exactly are you going to do?"

 

"I don't know yet," says Dean, refusing to allow any part of him to retreat. If he hadn't believed the whole angel storyline before, the threat written all over this man would have been the kicker. "But," he continues, holding the man's stare, "like angels, I'm pretty _singular_ when it gets down to it."

 

They stare each other down a few beats longer, Dean starting to sweat and wonder when was an acceptable time to maybe back down - 'never' seemed good right now - when the man rolls his eyes and sighs loudly. " _Fiiiiiine_ ," he says, "you've _completely_ sucked the fun outta this for me."

 

Dean blinks. Did he seriously just win a stare down with a-- with _what_ ever the hell Scardouche is?

 

"Wait right here," he continues, "and let's just call what I do next a Christmas miracle or something, right? _Jeez_ , some people just can't take a joke!"

 

And with that, he's gone.

*** * ***

"It's not a vessel," repeats Castiel.

 

" _What_?" repeats the courtroom.

 

Castiel looks first to Zachariah, and then to Naomi, in utter confusion. "Is that what this is about?"

 

"What did you _think_ it was about?"

 

"Um," says Castiel, "fraternising with a human?"

 

A very noisy silence ensures, as all three parties can think, momentarily, of nothing to say.

 

Zachariah is, as ever, the first to stick his head above the pulpit. "That's a good try at a get-out clause, kid, but we all know there'd be no fraternising without a vessel, and there's no one in this room _nearly_ powerful enough to get around that."

 

"Ahem," says a voice.

 

"Gesundheit," says Castiel.

 

"No, I mean, 'ahem, I am offended by that supposition'," says the voice. The voice Castiel recognises, no less, as being the one to get him into this mess. Before anyone can stop him, he's striding to the front desk, and giving Naomi a mock bow. "Yeronner," he says, "I accept full and total responsibility for this incident. I led poor, guileless Castiel astray, and forgot to report it to the proper authorities. So, y'know, don't be too hard on him."

 

" _What_?" says Zachariah, as Naomi says, simply, "I see."

 

"See, we can get this all resolved fairly simply - Cassie dear, if you'd remove your shirt?"

 

"No," says Castiel, and "You said this was all _approved_."

 

"Eh, I lied," says the man, and clicks his fingers. "Get with the stripping! It's evidence, I promise!"

 

Grumbling, and not entirely sure he should trust that which got him very nearly... well, hopefully he'll never find out what very nearly would have become of him, Castiel removes first the overcoat, then the jacket, then the shirt, at pains to take his time in doing so.

 

"There," says the man, as soon as his back is bear and the marks across it apparent, "those, dear audience, are the Lichtenberg figures you get when you shove an angeload of light into a clay model. Pretty cool, amirite?"

 

Castiel shucks his shirt back on, ignoring the loud chatter of the gathered audience, and pretending not to enjoy the look of confusion-marred disappointment marking Zachariah's face. Once the chatter has died down, Naomi says simply, "I see."

 

She looks at him consideringly a moment, and then to the faux desk she sits in front of. "In accord with the evidence just presented, your sentence for your actions will be changed accordingly. I believe a temporary secondment to Earth will do well to teach you the error of your judgement," she says, with a smile more well-humoured than Castiel had known her capable of. "This will last for eighty years, give or take," she adds, with something bordering on a wink.

 

Before anyone has a chance to react, he asks, "Starting immediately?"

 

"Immediately," she agrees, and he is once more in front of the most beautiful face of all.

*** * ***

"Hey," says Dean.

 

"Hello," says Castiel.

 

They both look at each other for an overly long while, waiting for the other to move, and it's Castiel who eventually steps forward and pulls Dean into an elbow-y, awkward hug. "Yeah, yeah," says Dean, patting him on the back, "you were only gone for what, ten minutes?"

 

"Give or take," says Castiel. "And I don't believe I'll be going again."

 

"Believe it or not," Dean says, "I actually get your whole crazy story now. You really did just wanna make me happy, huh?"

 

"It's in my nature to be fixated on a task," says Castiel, shrugging his shoulders slightly, but not willing to let go just yet.

 

"Do you still want to do that?"

 

Castiel pauses, and then takes a minute step back, enough to _really_ look Dean in the eye. "I was thinking," he says, with a smile that promises many, _many_ things, "we could work on making us both happy."

 

"Amen to that," says Dean, and starts the experiment in joint happiness by trying to kiss the living daylights out of him.

 

(It doesn't quite work, but it was worth a shot.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this year's attempt at fic! Many thanks to my beta, and to symphonicblue, who made a beautiful picture, and to my beta, for helping me get this a lot less spelling-mistake filled than my last :D and biggest thanks to everyone who commented on and gave kudos to rock&roll, it pushed me to write something new!


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